Just Deserves
by Era Yachi
Summary: HR finally rears its ugly head and Fusco's life may be on the line. Carter is impatient with a seemingly indifferent John. Finch is struggling with the past and present. Lives are at stake, loyalties are questioned, and worst of all, the coffee maker is broken.
1. Early Bird Gets Nothing

**Summary:** HR finally rears its ugly head and Fusco's loyalties are given their last, life-threatening examination. Carter is impatient with a seemingly indifferent John. Finch is struggling with past and present. The city unravels.

**AN:** All 'm gonna say is, pay attention to time stamps. I won't jump around too much, don't worry. Everyone loves Raym—er, reviews. Everyone loves reviews. Including me. Steak.

* * *

**_Chapter One: Early Bird Gets Nothing_  
**

* * *

_August 17__th__, 2013. 2:14 pm, Maiden Lane_

* * *

Tourists and suits on all sides. A man with slightly thinning, curly brown hair and a brow that never seemed to stop worrying expertly dodged the high concentration of people as he jogged down the sidewalk. The badge on his belt flashed in the sun; he might have just been a cop on duty, chasing a suspect or on his way to an active crime scene. People didn't notice the sweat on his brow, or care that there was a sense of irregular urgency in his step.

Detective Fusco mopped his forehead with a sleeve as he pulled out his cell phone a second time that hour. It was broad daylight.

"_Good afternoon, detective. What can I do for you?"_

_ Yes_, a relieved voice wheezed in the detective's mind when he heard the calm, polite voice on the other end he never knew he'd come to rely on so much. The world was crazy these days. "Professor, you've got no idea how glad I am to hear your voice," he said, and meant it.

"_I truly wish I could say the feeling is mutual, as we're extremely busy at the moment. Can this wait?"_

'We', he said, so Fusco was now positive that Glasses and Wonderboy were mixed up in yet another one of their Robin Hood charades. In other words, whatever he said now didn't matter. At least with Finch, he got a chance to make his case. If it were Reese on the other end, 'busy' meant a quick five second countdown before the mysterious suited scorpion knight hung up on him. Fusco almost bowled over a middle-aged lady as weaved the crowd, and mumbled a quick apology without even slowing down.

_"I'm sorry, detective?"_

"Not you," Fusco responded hurriedly. "Look, I don't got much time. I think I'm in some pretty serious trouble and—"

"_No, I mean I truly am sorry. I'm afraid that I've been having trouble with my equipment today. I'm unable to track your location."_

_ They have pills for that, y'know,_ was the quip he would have returned with normally, but knowing what he did, Lionel decided that Finch was the last person he wanted to tease right now. "I'm at the corner of Maiden Lane and Water Street. Look, just tell me where Mr. Royal Pain is, would ya? I could meet him, maybe provide some backup—"

"_Mr. Reese is in the middle of a delicate negotiation, detective. I'll try to__—"_

And the line went dead. "Hello?" Fusco looked at the screen and saw the call had definitely ended. Redialing did nothing; the line rang, but never went through. He pocketed his phone in dismay, just as a shooting pain stabbed through his left side. A cramp—obviously his punishment for the two doughnuts he ate for lunch.

He had to get to a secure location, out of the open, and try again. Maybe Carter this time. He wondered if she knew what he knew, and if he should tell her. If HR had connected him to 'it', then they'd definitely make the connection with her, too. Maybe if he mentioned that to the Bane of His Existence, tall, dark and gloomy would get off his reluctant high horse and come to her rescue. And if in the process, Lionel also happened to get his ass pulled out of the fire, all the better, right?

That was his best bet. Probably. Lionel grabbed his side in face-pinching pain and lurched forward, putting as much distance between himself and the jewelry shop as possible.

* * *

_August 15__th__, 2013, 8:15 am, The Library (2 days prior)_

* * *

Bear whimpered.

Finch looked up and gave the canine a sympathetic look before turning eyes back to the screen of his laptop. "I know, Bear. I'm sure he'll be here soon. We'll go for a walk to the park; I'm sure you'd like that."

The dog's head shot up and his ears twitched at the mention of 'walk'. If he could sense the mild frustration in Finch's voice, the prospect of fresh air, squirrels and other four-legged friends overrode Bear's sensitive constitution and replaced it with pure, dog-like elation. A second later, he was on his feet prancing eagerly towards his first master, who had just reached the top of the stairs.

"Good dog. _Leggen_," John's toneless voice greeted and ordered the dog back to his bed. John, still in his light coat, strode across the library. "Morning, Finch."

"Good morning, Mr. Reese. I don't suppose—"

John reached out and placed a warm, paper Starbucks cup on the desk next to Finch's laptop, paused a second to emphasize the act of courtesy, and then left to approach the mini-fridge with a weighed down plastic bag in hand. "You're welcome."

"I was going to say, I don't suppose you realize how late it is, which is of course absurd now that I think about it," Finch responded in stride, but rigidly opened the tab on what would undoubtedly be a very delicious latte. The barista at the local Starbucks had a semi-popular blog, in which she actively gossiped about her attraction to Mr. Reese, or as she described him, 'Tall Dark'n Hot'. Since she had no reason to believe Finch's latte was intended for another person, she naturally put extra effort into preparing it in an ongoing attempt to impress her latest crush.

Sometimes, local security surveillance and research had its unexpected perks.

"Had a run-in with some uncooperative gentlemen next door, that's all," his partner responded, having put away the day's lunch. He sat down in a swivel chair close to the table.

"With any luck, those were the same gentlemen who have been abhorrently misusing Mrs. Gibson's unprotected Wi-Fi. By the time I took charge and secured it with my own password, that poor woman had over six hundred dollars in data overages on her last two bills."

Finch was unperturbed and unaware of John's blank stare, until he happened to glance up from his work and notice the slight tugging of amusement on his partner's face. "Well, Mr. Reese, we each have our own methods of helping people," he pointed out. He glanced curiously from the latte to John again. "In any case, may I ask how you knew the coffee maker was broken?"

"That's because I borrowed a few parts from it to make that imitation explosive for Friday's number," John told him casually.

"Oh." Finch looked away, eyes fluttering back to his many screens. "I suppose visiting the local Radio Shack was out of the question."

"When the bomb has to look like it came out of Nazi controlled Germany, it is," said John, standing up. Bear sprang to his feet, tail wagging furiously as the tall man cross the room to grab the dog's leash of its hook. "Coming, Finch?"

"Of course. I just need to polish this entry data on our newest number," Finch's voice was back to being distracted, even a little tired. "Given who we're dealing with, I suspect it's best to be fully prepared before we get involved."

"I do enjoy a nice challenge," John responded, snapped the leash to their dog's collar and retreated down the stairs.

* * *

"Christopher Jersey. Son of recently deceased CEO of Sharktooth Industries, a giant of a corporation involved in the distribution of various seafood. He has the legal capability to claim a third of the company, but for some reason he's completely separated himself from the will and refuses to involve himself in his siblings' affairs."

"You say that as if it's unusual," John said, matching Finch's slower gait as they strolled down the park avenue. He'd already studied Jersey's dossier. "Twenty-two years old, barely out of school. Kid probably has all kinds of dreams, not to mention he just lost his father."

"Mother, actually," Finch corrected, to the point. "His father died of a heart attack six years ago. Allison Jersey ran the company for twelve years and passed away a week ago Saturday. Also heart attack."

"Interesting coincidence."

"Yes, it does seem that way, except Charles Jersey had been ill a long time. Chronic user of a tobacco pipe, apparently. Mrs. Jersey on the other hand, learned from her husband's mistakes and lived a healthier life than most Olympic athletes I know."

John gave him an appraising side-glance as Bear excitedly found a new lamp post to investigate. They stood still for a moment; the sky was overcast and there was more than just a breeze on their shoulders. John raised an eyebrow slightly, "You know a lot of Olympic athletes?"

"I've made donations. My point is, we should take into consideration that Christopher's mother's death wasn't a fluke of nature, and his life may be in danger due to his stake in a very profitable, multi-billion dollar industry."

"You know, times like these I'm really happy I wasn't born into a rich family. Seems people are always trying to kill you for your money."

"I'm sure I don't have to remind you that we have plenty of enemies of our own, and only a handful of them want to kill us for money."

"A man with no enemies is a man with no character," John pointed out, as they resumed their walk.

"Paul Newman, one of my all-time favourite philanthropists of the modern age. Mr. Reese, I assure you I am rather unsettled that you're learning about my tastes faster than I can unravel yours."

"That's because I have no taste, Finch. You know that."

* * *

_August 15__th__, 2013, 8:27 am_

* * *

There was a familiar murmur in the NYPD office. It was a drone of sound that included ringing phones, rustling papers, and a mixture of voices on all different levels of agitation, sounds that Joss Carter never realized she missed until recently. The paperwork she would never miss, but the atmosphere of fellow detectives putting their heart into their jobs, that special knowledge that cases were getting solved and lives were being improved, it sunk into your skin.

Old colleagues greeted her politely when she walked into her former workplace. Some of them thought different of her, but she didn't give a damn about what they thought. She knew who her friends were.

"Oh, heya there, Carter," said a voice thick with a true New York accent. Fusco just stepped out of the glass walled offices where his and her (former) desk were located. "Haven't seen ya around here in a while. You uh, bringin' some new guy in?"

"Transporting a witness to a sketch artist," she said, glancing over his shoulder at Fusco's newest partner. "And before you ask, no, I have not heard from our mutual friend. Though I'd bet my life savings that this whole World War II bomb scare thing could've been a lot worse if it weren't for him."

"Yeah, no kiddin'." His brow lifted, his eyes shifted, and though Carter had only been his partner for a short time compared to other kinds of partnerships, she recognized that look. Why she didn't try to stop him, she didn't know. Probably because she was beyond tired and ready to sink into a steaming hot bath.

"Listen, I know now's not a fantastic time, but there's somethin' we really need to talk about," he said, trying his best to sound casual but failing at his worst.

Carter couldn't believe her ears. "Fusco, I already told you-"

"It's not that. It's not," he interrupted quickly, stammering over the first word. Fusco was almost never shaken, not even when people started shooting at him. Faults aside, Carter knew him to be one of the best cops under any amount of pressure, so in spite of her fatigue-driven temper, his behaviour was getting through her shell.

"Alright," she said slowly, crossing her arms. "What's happening?"

"Y'know, forget I said anythin'. Both of us should probably get back to work or we'll jinx our good luck. A week without hearin' a word from those two—"

Murphy's Law prevailed in that moment, because Fusco's cell phone went off before he could finish his sentence. He closed his eyes and sighed—she didn't blame him. Given the incredibility of Reese and Finch's last vigilante escapade, she knew the chances of this one being even crazier were pretty high. "I'll let you answer that," she said, unable to resist a smirk. "Let me know if our mutual friend wants me to write some speeding tickets or something."

"Trade you in a heartbeat," he grumbled, as she strolled away.

She didn't see Fusco answer the phone, so she couldn't possibly have overheard the entire conversation. She did catch a snippet of his words, though. Fusco had faced away from the elevator, looking out a window and reluctantly answered his cell .

"Okay, what do you want? It's crazy down here, you guys have a sick sense of timing." Pause. "What? Who is this? Look, I don't got time for prank calls. Word of advice; you wanna prank call a cop, you better do it like a man. Feel free to call me when ya grow pair." Pause. "Geez, the things kids think of these days..."

* * *

TBC...


	2. A Gift Horse's Teeth

**AN: **Meant to update this much earlier. Spent a lot of time planning out the intricate details of this story's 'number' and the coinciding plot with HR. This stuff's tough. Feedback is good for the soul.

* * *

_**Chapter Two: A Gift Horse's Teeth**_

* * *

_August 15__th__, 9:12 pm, Christopher Jersey's, 25__th__ Rooftop Patio_

"I feel ridiculous, Mr. Reese."

The two men stood shoulder-to-shoulder, in the midst of what was rapidly becoming an oppressing crowd of young adults. _Kids_, John thought. That was the thing with kids he noticed; high school, college, post-college, they might as well be the same thing to today's youth. He didn't really care. In fact, it only made his job easier, because dealing with a rich low twenties heartthrob like Christopher was difficult enough when you didn't fit the description of his preferred casual company. Being able to predict the motives and actions of people he surrounded himself with was a benefit to their operation.

"We discussed this, Finch," John replied amicably, leaning ever so slightly so he could speak quietly. "This is the best way to get inside his comfort zone. Also, speaking of comfort, how are those shades feeling?"

"About the same as my old glasses, actually, with the rather disheartening addition of my inability to see."

"That means they're working."

"I feel about as useful as a lawn ornament right now."

"If it makes you feel any better, there's this really attractive lady in a red dress has been eying you for the past five minutes."

"Has she? This is a fundraiser for the blind and visually handicapped; the only logical conclusion is that she must be in dire need of an opthamologist."

Finch heard, rather than saw, John's polite smirk at his self-derogatory statement. It truly was unnerving standing in the midst of so many people without so much as the relative safety of his eyesight. Mr. Reese had made an excellent if personally disagreeable case that, in order to play the role of the 'blind billionaire' accurately, Finch was better off wearing glasses that quite literally left him blind. He prided himself a fairly decent actor, but no amount of acting ability would overwrite his instinctive hand-eye coordination or self defense.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said a familiar, teasing voice. The hair on his neck stood on end; no one needed a pair of eyes to recognize that tone. She approached them from behind, and Finch could only hope that she had worn something that made it impossible to hide a firearm. Unlikely, but a man might dream.

"Shaw," John said soberly, to Finch's left. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Germany right now."

"Berlin didn't work for me," she responded just as casually, and there was a wet pause, probably caused by a glass of champagne. "Likewise, I thought you promised to call me when there's more work available."

"I'm afraid this isn't your line of work," Finch replied before John had a chance. "There is no one here to shoot, detonate or otherwise bring to an untimely demise. Also, while I may be good at what I do, even I easily contact someone who refuses to carry a cell phone."

"Tell me, are those things for real? I mean, you've gone all out on this, I see."

No doubt she was referring to his disadvantageous new accessory. Politely, Finch explained, "My research on Mr. Jersey indicates a particularly anti-social pattern of living. When dealing with the extremely paranoid, it's best to be prepared for all situations."

"You would know," she said casually, and Finch had to remind himself the importance of their budding alliance. It would do ill to react in such a way that might push her away when they may yet need her. Though he had his doubts that Shaw could actually take offense to anything. Except, perhaps, an insult to Bear, to whom she was bonding rather rapidly.

"I think it's best you took the night off, Miss Shaw," he said.

"Too late," John interrupted her response, leaning in close to them both to speak in a hushed tone. "Jersey's coming our way right now. Finch, Shaw, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Finch couldn't help it, and uttered barely moving his lips, "Oh, God."

"Welcome," said a passionate, young voice over the low din of the other party guests. Finch could only assume this was Christopher Jersey. The voice stopped roughly five feet away, and continued. "I'm sorry, I haven't had the opportunity to come introduce myself yet. I'm Christopher, and I'm delighted you could make it to my party, um..."

"Victor," said Finch, with a polite smile. He offered his right hand, and felt it grasped firmly in professional handshake. "Victor Krorski. This is my...wife, Vanessa."

"Enchanté. You look stunning, Mrs. Krorski. Your husband is a lucky man."

"Well, I'm sure he'll have to take your word for it," Shaw responded tartly, and Finch got the impression that whatever had just transpired, it involved publicly, if mildly, humiliating their number. He had to step in before his 'dearly beloved' began systematically unraveling the cover he'd been so careful to set up.

Finch cleared his throat, and fortunately, John got the signal. "I'm John," his partner said in a straightforward, business-like manner. "I'm Mr. Krorski's lookout and part-time bodyguard."

"Of course, of course. A lot of my patrons have personal assistants, though 'bodyguard' is certainly something of a rarity. Oh, where are my manners. Come, come inside the house. No one comes to a fundraiser to stand around and shoot the breeze all day."

Finch felt the pressure of John's hand on his shoulder, a light touch that doubled as an indicator to start moving and something more prominent. _He took the bait_, it said. Of course, Finch knew that. They had come here to establish himself as a wealthy proprietor and potential donor to Mr. Jersey's cause. He intended to put a lot of money on the line in order to purchase an excuse to hang around for a few days. The young entrepreneur seemed intelligent, and no doubt had surmised that only the very richest of blind people could afford Italian suits and their own, personal 'seeing eye human'.

The din of the party became muffled, and a slight draft passed over his shoulder. That, coupled with the abrupt change in temperature meant that they were inside. Finch heard a fridge door open, the rattle of a bottle, just as Mr. Reese guided his left hand to a nearby counter top, which Finch clutched thankfully for support.

"I don't typically offer my guests something from my own private stock," Mr. Jersey was saying, followed by the sound of a popping cork. "But I like to think of myself as a well-balanced man. Half business, half pleasure. You're obviously not here for the hors d'oeuvres, Mr. Krorski, and experience has taught me that I only have one chance to make a good first impression. Would you care for some pinot noire? It's Australian."

"Thank you; however, I'm more of a chardonnay patriot," Finch replied. "There is also no reason to try to impress me. I am here to make a donation to your organization for a rather selfish reason, not because I fancy myself as a benevolent philanthropist. I prefer we get that into the open right away."

There was a pause where Mr. Jersey filled two glasses with red wine—one for himself, and the other for Miss Shaw, no doubt. Then their targeted number spoke again.

"I find your honesty refreshing," he said. "At two years, Eyes Forward is just a baby. A non-profit organization run by expensive fundraisers and more groveling than I ever though possible. Also, I wouldn't say it's exactly selfish to want to cure your own disability. Around here, we call that 'hope'."

"I'm so sorry," Shaw interrupted, with a false sense of urgency. "Is there a bathroom nearby that I could use?"

"Of course. The downstairs bathroom's being redecced, so you can use the one just at the top of the stairs. Left side, first door."

_Good work, Miss Shaw_, Finch thought favourably. Of course, he could expect no less from a woman who had bugged his office with a listening device he still could not find.

"Allow me to get straight to the point, Mr. Jersey," he said, hoping to draw all of the young man's attention from Shaw's absence. Mr. Reese couldn't leave his side given his cover story as a bodyguard, and while Shaw may by a wild card, her skills in espionage were undeniably sound. "There are dozens of organizations just like yours in New York, most of which appeared, at first, to be more promising on the surface, but I've chosen yours based solely on a matter of character."

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I follow."

"Your character, to be specific. I know you just recently lost your mother; I'm terribly sorry. The fact is, you've made the decision to forego an undoubtedly profitable future with your parents' company, which I assume is because of your charitable work with Eyes Forward."

Mr. Jersey sighed. Not angrily, but rather with a release of tension that likely stemmed from his recent, personal tragedy. "I started this non-profit organization while I was in college. I had a roommate; he was blind. He was on anti-depressants, went to weekly counseling, but none of that seemed to make a difference. He never made it to graduation."

The morose silence that shrouded the room only lasted a moment. Shaw came down the stairs, the sharp clicking of her heels on the expensive floor tiles echoing loudly. "That's much better," she said dispassionately. "So, what did I miss?"

"If it's all right with Mr. Jersey, I believe we were just getting to the matter of just how much I could offer his organization," Finch told her. "Only, you must excuse me, I'm beginning to feel rather tired. Please, take my card." At that signal, Mr. Reese would reach into his suit pocket to produce a card with Victor Krorski's name on it. "I'll be in touch with you first thing in the morning with the necessary details for the transaction."

The remainder of their stay at Mr. Jersey's fundraiser was just an elaborate wrap-up. Finch feigned mental and physical exhaustion, exacerbating both his real and false disabilities to hasten their exit. It did not seem like Miss Shaw had spent nearly enough time upstairs to gain much information, but he would know soon enough why.

He was most certainly more than eager to get these glasses off, at least.

* * *

_August 16__th__, 8:35 am, NYPD 8__th__ Precinct  
_

Fusco knew he should have ignored the call. Just like every other time he felt compelled to pick it up. The only thing waiting for him on the other end was a bad migraine and some more premature gray hairs.

Still, he answered it. Glutton for punishment, some might say, but honestly he was just bored stiff with this week's stiff casework.

"Fusco here," he said. Keep it short. He'd learned, albeit slowly, that there was no reason to use more words with Sir Broodstoomuch than he had to.

"_Hey there, Lionel. You don't sound too happy."_

"That's 'cause I'm chained to my desk and the AC is broke. Whaddaya want? I'm busy here."

"_Then I won't take up too much time. At least this will give you a chance to go somewhere nice and cool for a change."_

"Yeah, knowing you, it's probably a morgue or somethin'," Fusco muttered, keeping his voice low and under the office atmosphere. The silence that followed that dragged on just a little too long, and he closed his eyes. "Shoulda kept my mouth shut."

"_We need the full autopsy report of a woman named Allison Jersey, at the J.E. Madison Coroner's Offices in lower Manhattan. Oh, and chances are you'll only be able to get a hard copy."_

_ "_And what are the chances of you givin' me the full story this time, instead of hangin' up on me like you normally do?"

Mr. Sunshine hung up on him.

"S'what I thought," he sighed, putting the phone down on his desk. Before he could get back to his computer, the screen on the phone lit up with a text message. It was Simmons, again. "Son of a bitch."

_O__utside NYPD, 5 mins. Leave Syler out._

Syler, his third temporary partner in two weeks. The kids he put up with got switched out like diapers, and if he knew HR, it was for the same damn reason. Except Syler had seemed different than the others; the fact Simmons was deliberating stonewalling the kid gave that theory some decent traction.

Carter was a good judge of character. Not Fusco; that was where he pretty much failed in every way. He wouldn't be in this much trouble, would have been wiser back in his dirty days, if he'd been able to see things for the way they were. He'd trust Carter's instincts about Syler, and about this situation with Simmons breathing down his neck, but he got the feeling that their bond as partners only lasted as long as the official record. She'd stuck her neck out way too far when it came to moving the body.

He'd have to do this one himself. If there was any hope of getting Carter her real job back, dragging her into even more of his messes definitely wouldn't help.

Fusco logged out of his computer, shut it down and grabbed both his gun and badge from the drawer. Glancing over, he glimpsed his questionable partner talking to another detective with his back turned. Just perfect. Grabbing his cell, throwing on his jacket, he moved as quickly as he could manage without drawing attention to the elevator.

Simmons was waiting for him on the sidewalk, as promised. It took the better part of Fusco's willpower to not deck the guy out and slap some handcuffs on him there and then. That was another one of those peculiar feelings where he felt to compelled to do what he'd like, rather than what was smart.

"Jus' for the record, the only reason I'm even out here is 'cause I know you've got a pistol sittin' next to Carter in that squad car," he advised the flat-faced, dirty street cop. "So why don't we skip the part where you threaten her and get this over with."

Simmons' eyes flicked over him in open disgust before he gestured to his car parked at the side of the road. "Get in the car, Detective."

The street cop circled around the car to climb into the driver's seat. Fusco started to reach for the passenger door when he felt the cell phone vibrate in his pocket. Figuring it was some nonchalant follow-up from his coversation with the Bane of His Existence, he pulled out the phone to check.

No number. No name. Just one word on the screen:

_STAY_

That was it. Tapping the text dialogue, it opened, and was blank. He tried using the Reply button, and the phone returned to its home screen.

"This isn't a multiple choice decision, detective. Now," came a cold voice from the open window of the cruiser. Fusco gave him a sharp glare, lowering the phone and grabbing the door handle.

The phone vibrated. _STAY._

It could have been Finch, but not exactly likely, because _those_ texts always came with a number. Usually a different one each time, sure, but a phone number all the same. He might have even just wrote it off as spam, but the way the message and timing coincided was downright spooky. Not that it mattered. He may not be with HR anymore, but that didn't change the fact HR was with him. All the time, around every goddamn corner.

He flipped the phone over to silent mode, and got into Simmons' car.


End file.
